Lego House
by Triles For Miles
Summary: Nearly a decade after going their seperate ways, Tristan and Miles are unexpectedly reunited. When a desperate Tristan accepts a blind offer of employment from his ex, secrets are spilled, pandemonium awaits, and perhaps they get a second chance at love. Takes place 9 years after DNC Season 4.
1. Prelude

**Prelude**

 _~ One Week After Graduation ~_

"Remember the first time you brought me here?"

Tristan asked, collecting the large Chompy Chicken cup that Miles was trying to hand to him from the driver's' side. He took one long sip of the cold Coke before securing the cup between his knees, drying the condensation that had collected on his palms off on the leg of his sweatpants. Normally he wasn't a fan of soft drinks. But it was already nearing 24 hours since he'd last slept, and he desperately needed that caffeine boost to keep him alive.

Miles smiled at him with a slight laugh. His face was just barely visible in the darkness, illuminated mostly by the blue and white "Open 24-Hours" sign blinking above the closed drive-thru window. He began to dig through two paper bags in his lap, both sporting the same mildly disturbing image of a cartoon rooster eating a chicken sandwich on the front. That was typical Miles. He always had to check that everything in the bags was correct before he drove off. Because _Heaven forbid_ he end up with Honey Barbecue sauce instead of the Original kind, or they forget his second side of onion rings. Tristan used to think it was obnoxious. But he knew that next time he found himself indulging in a fast-food run alone, he was going to miss it.

"Yeah, when I took you out for 'The Best Wings in Town' and you tried to order water and a salad?"

Miles recounted the memory with a shake of his head, remembering how shocked and nearly insulted he'd felt that day. The feelings must have shown on his face, for Tristan rolled his eyes with a laugh as he leaned back against the passenger seat headrest.

"Hey, if I had known that these so-called 'Best Wings in Town' were like, fifteen hundred calories, I never would have come." He argued, and although that was true then, his tone about it now was nothing but playful.

"Yeah, but aren't you glad you did?" Miles questioned curiously, pulling a large yellow carton out of the bag and popping open the lid. "If you hadn't you never would have experienced the pure joy of these Garlic Parmesan Wings."

Just like that he had one of the wings in between his fingers, and was dangling it tauntingly in front of Tristan's face. The other boy's blue eyes nearly glazed over at the sight, giving his answer for him before he leaned up and snatched the morsel from Miles' grip with his teeth. They laughed together as Miles handed over the rest of Tristan's order and took off, balancing his own between his legs as he drove. The late time made the roads almost empty, leaving them with the comfort of being able to sing along - poorly and loudly - to Tristan's Spotify playlist without the odd stares from passersby. They kept the windows down as they sped down the 401, letting the slightly-chilled air whip their hairs in every direction. Every so often Tristan would lean over to feed Miles an onion ring or give him a sip of the drink. They were having so much fun that Tristan had completely forgotten where they were headed until Siri interrupted the chorus of "My Neck, My Back" to instruct Miles to exit on Dixon Road towards the Toronto-Pearson Airport.

"I cannot believe you're choosing to fly commercial when your family owns a private jet."

Tristan commented, mostly because he felt he had to say something in acknowledgement of what was happening. Miles snorted, his dark eyebrows rising high atop his crinkled forehead.

"Yeah, well, when I made the arrangements I didn't think it would be Chewy accompanying me." Miles argued with a shake of his head, his voice clinging to what little laughter the situation could dig up. "And, uh...it would have been a little awkward trying to join the Mile High Club when the pilot's known me since I was in diapers."

"Oh."

That was all Tristan could say, for the embarrassment that swept over him seemed to swipe all other vocabulary from his repertoire. The reminder of what could have been turned his pale cheeks a bright shade of pink. He took another deliberate sip of their drink, hoping the ice-cold cola could return his body temperature back to normal, and let his gaze fall out the window. To think that this night could have been so different...that he could have been the one following Miles to Europe...reliving Paris as they'd always imagined… The headlights of other cars pulling into the lot became blurred through his misty eyes. And when Miles parked the car and reached over to brush his hand against Tristan's, as tender and loving as his touch had always been, it was still so normal that Tristan had to fight the natural response to intertwine their fingers and tell him he loved him. Because he still did. Even though they broke up and it was ultimately for the better, Tristan still loved him just as much as he ever had. At that moment, he wasn't sure he'd ever stop.

"Hey…" Miles' soft voice called for his attention. Tristan blinked back his few tears before turning to face him, smiling faintly as their eyes met. "I had a great time with you this week."

He had kept his word about wanting to spend whatever time he had left before he took off for Europe with Tristan. In the past seven days they made enough memories to last them both another lifetime.

"Ditto." Tristan agreed, smile widening to show his whitened teeth. And although the threat of tears were still burning at his eyes, it was the truth. "I still can't believe we finished four seasons of Friends in a week."

"Yeah, well, I still can't believe how badly you kicked my ass at wheelchair basketball."

"That was payback for ruining my popcorn!" Tristan announced confidently, sending them both into another round of laughter at the memory of Miles setting off the smoke alarm the weekend before and filling his house with the stench of burnt kernels and dill spice for hours.

"I call for a rematch." Miles decided, latching onto Tristan's confidence and holding out his hand for a confirming shake. "When I come back for Christmas. Just you and me, one-on-one."

"It's a deal." Tristan agreed, going in for a shake to seal-the-deal but pulling his hand away at the last second. "But! When I win, again, we are going shopping and completely eliminating the color blue from your wardrobe."

"Alright fine. But, when I win, you have to play Call of Duty with me for a full day. With no complaints."

So they shook on it, letting their hands clasp together one final time and linger just a little too long for comfort. They both looked away as they pulled apart, neither knowing what they should say or where they should go from there. It was Miles who finally broke the silence after several long, uncomfortable minutes. He unbuckled his seatbelt and cleared his throat, flipping over to his side to get a better look at the raven-haired boy beside him.

"You know, it's uh...it's not too late. Just say the word and we ditch Chewy, throw you over my shoulder, and run for it…"

He started, but Tristan shook his head. With a shaky sigh he turned back Miles, teeth digging into his bottom lip.

"I can't." He whispered, gaze glued to the leather seat underneath the brunette's twisted frame. "This is...what we've decided is for the best."

He paused then, swallowing deep as he forced his eyes to reconnect with Miles'. In that moment he chose to take everything in, for what would be their last moment alone together before their lives went in separate ways. When Miles returned in the winter he'd be a college student. He'd be a citizen of a whole other country. He'd have lived in hostels and a dorm and would have all new stories about the places he'd been and people he'd met. He could have a new haircut...or maybe even a new lover. Tristan never wanted to forget the familiarity of the eyes staring back at him - two orbs of chocolate brown glazed over with a jumble of opposing emotions. He never wanted to forget the way the little hairs stuck out around his hairline or the deep creases that formed around his mouth when he smiled, or the way his adam's apple visibly quivered in his throat as he simply nodded - not saying a word although he clearly wanted to.

"Have you ever heard that saying?" Tristan continued, sitting up a little straighter and losing his morose whisper. "I think it goes like…'if you love something, set it free. If it comes back to you, it's yours. If it doesn't, it was never meant to be'?..."

Tristan's voice trailed off, completing his thoughts with nothing more than a shrug. But the implication was clear enough for Miles to understand. There was still hope. Maybe not today or tomorrow. But maybe next year. Or after college. Or maybe even ten years from then. There was still hope.

They walked in silence from through the parking lot, the only sounds to be heard coming from Tristan's walker and Miles' suitcase against the pavement. Miles was taken back by the number of familiar faces staring back at him when the large, automatic doors to the entrance slid open. Of course, he had invited all his friends to see him off. But he hadn't actually expected any of them to show. Yet, there they were. All waiting beside his siblings, mother, and Chewy. All shooting him the same exhausted death-glare as he stepped inside.

"About time." Jonah sighed, to which Grace chimed in from beside him.

"Yeah, we thought you went awol."

"There you are!" His mother announced in her expected dramatic fashion, throwing her hands down as she hurried over to assist with his things. "Where the hell were you? I texted and called."

"Sorry. I, uh, couldn't leave the country without one last stop at my second home." He explained, lifting up the Chompy Chicken bag clutched in his free hand to be met with a series of groans and rolling eyes.

"Well, you better make the goodbyes quick. We've still gotta get through customs." Chewy scolded, clearly annoyed at his counterpart but knowing better than to expect anything less.

His mother was first. She breathed him in with thin arms wrapped tightly around his frame, crystal eyes already brimming with tears. With a rattled voice she reminded him of all the typical motherly duties: Avoid conversing with strangers. Remember to change his underwear every day - and not to just flip it inside out to tack an extra day on. Do drink lots of water. Don't drink the "punch" at frat parties. Metal never belongs in the microwave. Condoms are not as expensive as childcare. Call her as soon as he landed. And, of course, that she loved him.

Although Diana did cry she remained predictably composed. Though the same could not be said for her daughter, who nearly knocked her oldest brother down to the linoleum floor with her body weight against his. She could only sob and he held her as she did, one hand stroking through her slept-on brown locks while the other remained steady around her waist. Words weren't needed to make it clear she hadn't truly thought through the situation at hand until that very moment. Before then, the idea of her brother moving almost 6,000 km away was just talk. Mostly talk that consisted of how happy she was to be getting his (bigger) bedroom, and that there would be one less obnoxious boy to stink up the bathroom or hog the good TV with stupid video games. But now, it was reality. The reality that her brother's trip to London was not just for the summer, and didn't come with a return ticket home in two months like Winston's.

A shared look between Miles and Hunter lead to the youngest Hollingsworth boy peeling Frankie off their other brother's body and pulling her into his own. His free hand went out for a shake, but Miles used it to pull him in for his own slightly awkward yet completely necessary embrace. It didn't last nearly as long or consist of nearly as many emotions, just a reminder that he had to take care of himself, and to look after their mom and sister. Miles dug into his pocket before stepping away, pulling out the set of car keys he'd used to get himself there and handing them over to Hunter confidently.

Although he knew Zoë was there more for Tristan's moral support than for Miles or herself, he still couldn't let her get away without an obligatory hug and a promise that she'd get Tristan back to the rehab center safely that night. She squeezed him tightly before letting go, seeing him off with a reminder that she was always available in case he needed to write a biography on an ex-teen-star turned valedictorian. He gave one last thanks to those who helped him on the play - Grace, Jonah, Rasha, and Lola - insisting on a group hug before assuring his leading ladies and faithful techies that there hadn't been anyone else he'd rather have shared the experience with. He thanked them for everything, making sure to give Lola's shoulder a knowing squeeze when he said it. Maya told him not to do anything outrageous in London, and he assured her he made no promises before she threw her arms around his shoulders for a final hug.

His last goodbye was waiting for him with tired, blue eyes forced awake and teeth anxiously gnawing away at the straw to the empty Chompy Chicken cup. Miles began to fidget with his fingers, slipping something into his hand and using the other to pull Tristan's closer to him. He placed a small, cold object in Tristan's palm firmly before pushing the boy's fingers in to make a closed fist. Tristan re-opened as soon as Miles let go, revealing Miles' class ring. It was a stunning piece of jewelry - a pure gold band with a big, blue stone in the middle, the words "Degrassi Class of 2017" etched into the sides. It had to have cost a fortune, at least.

"Miles…" Tristan breathed, unsure of the appropriate response in the heat of the moment. "I...I can't take this…"

"Please." Miles ushered, shoving Tristan's hands away when the boy tried to return it back to Miles' palm. "Like you said. If it's meant to be then it'll come back to me."

Then they embraced. For how long, neither really knew for sure. All around them people made small talk and tried not to stare but they were clueless, letting themselves get wrapped up in each other one last time. They left each other without another word. No goodbye. No "I love you". But still the feeling that somehow, in some way, their story was far from over...


	2. I Watched It Begin Again

**Chapter 1: Begin Again**

 _~ Nine Years Later ~_

"No, I can't just push it back an hour! It's a business meeting, not a fucking hair appointment!"

Miles huffed into the microphone of his Bluetooth earpiece, his knuckles turning white around the steering wheel in frustration. He was realizing quickly that he needed to start checking who was ringing him before he answers the phone. If only he could have realized just as quickly what a mistake it would be to hire his sister.

"Look, Frankie, I don't have time for your games right now. I really need you at work on time today, and I really, _really_ need a damn cup of coffee."

He started, trying to get a word in edgewise between her incessant babbling. Every day was a new crisis, usually involving her boyfriend, and _always_ resulting in her ditching work the day of. Or, if he was lucky, showing up extremely late.

"No...no...just…" He sighed, both a sigh of frustration and relief as a big, purple sign reading "The Dot" finally came into view at the end of the street.

"Just call me back in twenty minutes, okay? "

With that he hung up, taking a long hard look at the building nearing through his windshield. Miles had never cared much for The Dot. Sure, their coffee was okay - if he didn't mind being robbed for something he could have easily brewed with his Keurig for free, and with zero difference in taste. Which, usually, he did.

Leaving the comfort of his home for a cup of shitty coffee just couldn't be justified now that his time as a lifeless high-schooler was long over. It'd been nearly 10 years since the old "glory days" when all it took was an expensive hot drink and an order of bland fries in exchange for some agreeable head in the backseat of his car. If he said he missed it, he'd mostly be lying. But in his exhausted state of mind a little comfortable nostalgia was almost as satisfying as the thought of filling every ounce of his body with the most caffeinated thing he could find.

Keyword: _Almost._

But more than anything, he chose to stop at The Dot that day because it was another two miles to the nearest Starbucks and there was currently a tomato-faced toddler attempting to break the sound barrier from his backseat. He had been surprised to hear from his sister that the old coffee shop was still around. Especially considering the news that his once beloved Chompy Chicken was no longer in business. Truth be told, he'd nearly forgotten the place existed.

It had been a while since he'd been able to come back to Toronto with enough time to venture beyond his mother's place. He had managed to keep himself plenty busy since moving away after high school. One degree worth of studies at The London Writer's Academy quickly turned into two. Then came his internship for The Telegraph and working on getting his first few books published. Before he knew it, the years had just flown by. In that time he'd watched through Facebook updates and text messages as his brother moved away and his mother moved on. Of course, everyone he'd ever known had tried to reach out to him upon the news of his father's passing the year before. But none kept in touch beyond his truthful assurance that he was "okay". He couldn't be bothered, though, by the dreams of things that could have been. He had made it, finally, to a point where his life was at some peace. He had faced all his demons, and he'd done it all before thirty.

...Or so he thought

Little had he known he would have one more demon to face, and this one took the form of a not even two-year-old _hellion_ who had apparently devoted her life to ensuring he never got more than an hour of sleep.

He did a half-assed parallel park outside the coffeehouse and slumped out of the car, not trying hard enough to ignore the cries of that insufferable pest. Reluctantly he popped the door open, taking in the sight of four tiny, flailing limbs and that snot-covered face with about as much enthusiasm as he'd had for his last root canal. He stared at her for a long while, contemplating just why it would be so bad to leave her in there for a few minutes. It wasn't hot out – maybe 23 degrees at most. The Mustang had the standard security features. He wouldn't take long, just long enough to grab a cup of joe and wait for his head to stop pounding. She'd be fine…probably. But with as much as he had riding on his public etiquette, he wasn't exactly the sort of John Doe who could risk "probably".

As he crossed the street he couldn't help but imagine every last eye on him. First, trying intensely to figure out just how they recognized his face. The lack of sleep had clearly taken a toll on his appearance. He was sure he resembled something from The Walking Dead by that point, as that was certainly how he felt. Angered and lifeless, without enough energy in his being to even bother to shave his face in two weeks. Then, they would become that much more perplexed when the realization of who he was set in. Finally, they just watched – judged, rather – as their gaze shifted to the white-knuckle grip he had around the unsettled child tossed over his shoulder. They'd all catch her tear-filled face as he passed, noting the same tired, green eyes he was attempting to hide behind his shades. He contemplated shoving them all to the ground to revel in the sounds of their skulls shattering against the pavement. But Miles Hollingsworth III had never been one to crack under the impression of judgey idiots, and he'd be damned if he started now.

The Dot hadn't changed a lick since he'd last seen it. It was still just as crowded as ever. Still trying to mask the smell of teenage b.o. with the aroma of homemade Rice Krispie Treats and cake pops. He cringed as he caught sight of the first table to his right – a hoard of young men all sporting that same obnoxious yellow varsity jacket he'd gotten to know far too well. He watched one of the boys shoot a crumpled up receipt into an empty mug, sending the whole table into a thunderous applause. Behind them a group of power cheer girls rolled their eyes, leaning into each other with an appetite for gossip that did not go undetected. Back in his day that would have been Zoë Rivas or Mike Dallas at those tables. Now there sat a new breed, still waiting to start some ridiculous rumor or lead the Ice Hounds to an unexpected victory. Different faces, but the same old shit.

The whole scene was turning out to be more creepy than comforting. He huffed when he noticed the size of the line already snaking around the counter, having half the thought to just force himself awake a little longer to make it to that Starbucks up the road. He joined the wait as he contemplated, setting the child still writhing over his shoulder onto her feet. She tried to make a run for it, but he was quick, gripping at her small hand before she could get away.

"Nooo! Lemme GO!" She protested as she continued to twist and turn, her efforts ignored by Miles as he tried to peek around the workspace.

The baristas apparently hadn't changed either, for they were still too incompetent to handle more than one customer in a 15 minute span. Even the same old owner, whose nametag read 'Gavin', was waiting behind the register when Miles finally approached to order.

"Just a coffee. Black. Largest size you've got." Miles responded, knowing it was too late to dip out now.

He dug for his wallet with his free hand, pulling out a $20. When he glanced back up he was expecting to make uncomfortable eye contact with the middle-aged man balding beyond belief. But past Gavin's broad shoulder he caught a glimpse of something else - or rather, _someone_ else - too oddly familiar to ignore.

Cornered behind the cappuccino machine stood a visibly flustered barista, mistakenly thinking he was out of sight as he fumbled with the strings to his apron. His performance was nothing short of awkward, but it wasn't the thrill of someone else's embarrassment that drew Miles to him. Nor was it the undeniably delicious looking, caramel colored substance swirling around the machine he was attempting to use as protection.

It was those hands.

Those long, spindly fingers struggling so dispassionately to knot the two strings together at the small of his back. Miles knew those fingers, and those hands. And the thin arms sticking out from the sleeves of the jet-black tee shirt worn underneath the smock. It matched the hair on his head, which was still exactly as Miles last saw it. Though, he could still easily remember the times before when it had been tried a platinum blonde or chocolate brown.

He knew that skin, and that jawline, and the series of little freckles that scattered out among their porcelain surface like stars in the sky. He knew those lips, and that he knew for certain, for when he saw them he could still feel their touch – so smooth, yet firm – against his own…

But it couldn't be.

Word on the street was that his high school sweetheart had moved to the states years ago. As far as Miles knew, he had scored a leading role on a television series that shot in New York City. There was no way in hell the man he knew would leave the limelight behind to come back to boring old Toronto to work at The Dot, selling overpriced coffee for under-priced pay.

"Uh…sir?" The low voice of the manager broke his train of thought like a rock on the tracks.

"Hmm?"

"I said…will that be all?"

"Uh…yeah." Miles responded with a nod, hurriedly digging for his wallet as best as he could all while refusing to let this curious doppelganger out of his sight. "What's my damage?"

"Seven even." Gavin responded, to which Miles' handed over the crumpled bill and waited for his change.

Miles took the chance to gander at that employee again, pushing himself up on his toes discreetly to get a better view. He was about as tall as Tristan had been, maybe slightly taller. Just as lean and clearly in shape, judging by the slight muscle definition that peeked through his sleeves and over the collar of his shirt.

His dark locks curled against his scalp. Although Tristan had chosen to straighten his hair for most of highschool, Miles remembered that he'd rocked his natural curls for a while during senior year. Miles wished like hell that he could catch the boy's eyes, for Tristan's were a beauty that was unforgettable. Their ever-changing blue-gray-almost green color was truly one-of-a-kind.

"Hey, uh what's his story?" Miles asked absentmindedly, never taking his eyes off maybe-Tristan even as he collected his change. He leaned on the counter, trying to come off as cool as possible despite his heart attempting to burst through his chest. "Is he new?"

Gavin turned over his shoulder to catch the same view as Miles. His head shook in disfavor when he turned back, letting out a frustrated huff.

"Yeah, sorry about him." The older guy spoke with a voice that told Miles he was not too keen on the other barista. "He uh, just started and..."

"Where's he from?"

"Uhh the states. New York, I think." Gavin shot Miles a wary look, but it went unnoticed. Miles was too preoccupied by the feeling of his heart now dropping to his gut. "But uh, he grew up somewhere around here."

Then it clicked, and Gavin glanced from the employee back to Miles with an incitement smirk.

"Why? You know him?"

"Actually, yeah. I uh, I think so."

Miles murmured, feeling flushed all over. He couldn't quite grasp the sudden feeling of anxiety sweeping over him. All he knew was that if that was really Tristan... _his_ Tristan...or, well, formerly his Tristan… he needed to know.

… _.._

 _"Oh! Tristan! Tristan, over here!"_

 _A camera flashed. In that moment the world around him illuminated with nothing but bright white. The faces in the crowd, all the microphones and cameras, the crimson carpet beneath his feet - all gone. The serious chance that he could have been left blinded completely came with no warning. Still, he stopped._

 _Smiled._

 _Never blinked._

 _Offered a poised wave as he moved along._

 _He was still seeing spots, but to the public, he remained unfazed. He learned that trick quickly after his very first red carpet in 2021 when a photographer from Clevver News stunned him so severely he almost took down Rachel Bloom._

 _"Tristan Milligan! Can we get some love for your fans over at Seventeen Magazine?!"_

 _Tracing the direct source of the request was impossible in the sea of fans and publicists crowded outside the barriers. He blew a kiss in the general direction, and the crowd roared with excitement._

 _"Mr. Milligan! Mr. Milligan!"_

 _He came to a halt in front of the reporter anxiously pushing his microphone over the railing. His crystal eyes fell and then rose again._

 _Slowly._

 _Drinking up every inch of this boy as if he was dying of thirst._

 _He was undeniably attractive, in that nerdy chic sort of way. Tall and thin, but clearly still muscular. A fair complexion with a nice, natural tan. Curious green eyes and chocolate brown hair just long enough on top to grip his fingers into. The way his slacks sat tight around his lap - as if to give a peek at what's to come - sealed the deal._

 _"Hello, Mr. Milligan. Clark Madison from E! News." Dick Print introduced himself, exuding confidence in an obvious attempt to hide how flustered he'd become from Tristan's stare down._

 _His demeanor was almost...nostalgic. Almost as though he reminded Tristan of someone. Had he slept with him already? He couldn't recall._

 _"Who are you wearing?" Clark finally choked out, and Tristan chuckled a little deep in his throat._

 _"Mm. Alexander Mcqueen, of course." He answered, his voice grave and his gaze intense._

 _Bulge was charming, but clearly hadn't done his research. Tristan stored his name in the brain vault for later use. He would have a lot to teach him when he fucked him that night._

 _"Mr. umm...Mr. Tristan? Mr. Tristan?!"_

 _To his right stood a girl no taller than his knees, timidly waving around a printed version of his latest headshot. He zeroed in on her with his best loving smile. He had never been the child type - most of them were too sticky and loud for his liking. But the press would eat this one up. It could even get him a spot on Ellen, if he really played his cards right._

 _"Hi sweetie." Tristan cooed as he knelt in front of her, already feeling the heat from a thousand cameras at his neck."What's your name?"_

 _"Zoey." She announced proudly, shoving her picture so closely to his face he expected paper-cuts. "Could I get your auto-gwaph please?"_

 _"My best friend's name is Zoë!"_

 _He added as he removed the pen from his lapel and took hold of her picture. Using his knee for support, he scribbled his signature across his own face, adding a "Much Love" for character. The girl beamed as he handed it back, thanking him with a gap-toothed smile._

 _"No. Thank you!" He responded with a wink before sauntering off once more, letting his strut sync in rhythm with the sounds of the commotion._

 _"Tristan! Hey, Tristan!"_

 _"Mr. Milligan! Can we get a word for Buzzfeed?!"_

 _"Tristan Milligan! Have you ever considered screenwriting?!"_

 _"Tristan! Over here!"_

 _"Mr. Milligan! What are your plans now that you've been written off your hit series, Blood Vessels?!"_

 _"Mr. Milligan, what is your next project?!"_

 _"What's next for Tristan Milligan?!"_

 _"Tristan!"_

 _"Mr. Milligan!"_

 _"Tristan!"_

 _"Mr. Milligan!"_

 _"Tristan!"_

 _"Tristan!"_

…

"TRISTAN!" Another voice called, this one cross and _much_ too familiar.

Tristan frantically startled out of his flashback, dropping the apron strings he didn't realize he'd been fumbling with for the past 10 minutes. Suddenly he was no longer on the red carpet, surrounded by waiting press and adoring fans. He was in hell. Or at least, his version of hell - which took the form of an old coffee shop crammed with puberty-laden teenagers. And his Lucifer? The manager - A.K.A the middle aged, balding, white man who was currently scrutinizing him with unquestionable dissatisfaction.

"Sorry, uh, Gavin." Tristan stammered, avoiding the man's heated glare as he returned to his apron strings, re-assembling them into a sloppy bow behind his back. "I was just...uh...my apron came undone."

He laughed a little under the pressure, and for a brief moment the bitter man before him actually joined in. Sarcastically, of course, for it only took a matter of seconds before his face fell back to a serious slate.

"You've got a customer." Gavin announced, holding the order ticked out for Tristan to grudgingly take. "One XL Black for table 6 outside."

Tristan wanted to remind the man that he could read just fine. But he bit his tongue, instead offering a sweet smile as their mutually intimidating eyes locked together.

"I'm on it." He assured the higher-up, who continued to watch him for a moment even after Tristan had began to walk away.

Tristan scoffed to himself as he grabbed a cup from the stack, hoping like hell someone heard him. There weren't many things Tristan truly hated. Large reptiles came to mind first, followed closely by flannel shirts and bugs that fly. He wasn't a fan of country music, or any man who has to use words like "man-bun" or "guy-liner" to protect their toxic masculinity. He always thought cauliflower tasted like vomit, and had recently began to worry there was a serious possibility he was destined to be forever alone and would have to seek companionship from an overweight cat named Mittens.

But the ONE thing he'd decided he really, truly hated with a fiery passion...was coffee.

He hadn't always hated coffee. In fact, he was truly convinced that he never would have survived four years at Degrassi Community School if he'd never been introduced to skinny iced vanilla lattes. But what was once his sweetest guilty pleasure quickly became his greatest annoyance - all thanks to this insufferable hell that was The Dot.

It wasn't just serving drinks to inconsiderate teenagers or cleaning stubborn brown stains out of his clothes that he hated. No, it was coffee itself – every tiny little element that made up or contributed to the existence of coffee in any way. He hated how the sounds of a hundred quarts of coffee being spun away in various machines rang through his ears even hours after his shift had ended. He hated the way the grainy powders or brittle beans felt between his shoes and the floor every time some lazy juvenile didn't clean up their own mess. He hated the way the smell of _café' con leche_ stuck to him like a department store cologne he never asked to sample. After just two weeks of working there he'd even began to hate the taste, because it'd become physically impossible to sit back with his favorite nonfat caffeinated treat without the bitter taste of failure finding its way into the mix.

This time last year, he would have laughed directly in the face of anyone who had the balls to tell him he'd end up back in Toronto making overpriced coffee for underpriced pay instead of living his dream in The Big Apple. After graduating from the rehabilitation center and spending another year re-adapting to independent living, he bolted to New York so quickly he'd hardly had time to pack his belongings. The first 28 months post-move were rough. He spent endless days chasing after roles like "Guy with Dog" or "White Guy #4" just to have _something_ to add to his resumé.

He'd thought he struck gold with his first big television contract. (After all, he actually had to sign a _contract_ for this one.) And for a while, he really had. Blood Vessels – which, according to the New York times was "The Best Mythical-Creature-Love-Story-meets-Medical-Drama-Crossover in TV history" – secured its legacy well before season two. By the filming for season three came around, Tristan was sure he was set for eternity.

His life went from drab to fab faster than he could charge that adorable mid-city penthouse apartment to his brand new Platinum card. He was finally able to ditch that old, hand-me-down Ford from his brother for a sleek, new Corvette. New York's active gay scene swallowed him up like a handful of low-sodium kale chips, and kept him busy in more ways than one. He couldn't even remember the last night he'd spent at home alone doing nothing. There was always somewhere to go, and something to drink with someone to take home later.

But then, tragedy struck when he was eaten by a ravenous colleague.

...Well, his character on the show was eaten…

...which was just as bad.

Seriously.

Because from then on, Tristan Milligan - NYC's next TV superstar - had been type casted. And as a straight, blood-sucking ER surgeon, nonetheless. Now every audition he read for or modeling agency he contacted only saw Dr. Damien Vampiro; the super-hot, yet slightly effeminate ladies' man from Channel 29. And spoiler alert...there weren't _any_ other Mythical-Creature-Love-Story-meets-Medical-Drama-Crossovers in TV history, let alone currently looking to take advantage of this oddly specific niche.

Shocker.

Even Disney Channel - the lowest of the low - turned him down for that Dog with a Blog reboot. Which, of course, was just about _the_ last gig he actually _wanted._ But considering the only other offer he'd gotten in months was for a series of adult diaper commercials... he would have owned it like the latest Jimmy Choo handbag.

His so called "friends" only knew how to help his predicament by dragging him to Staten Island to force shots of Yamskaya down his throat until he was too drunk to complain any longer. Which, was great at first. But he could only spend so many months drowning his sorrows in fancy Russian vodka before Hurricane Eviction Notice forced him onto dry land. At that point he had two choices: move back to Toronto, or _actually_ take up that offer for the diaper commercials.

So as painful of a choice as it was, he had to say goodbye penthouse, and hello hockey pucks. He was just grateful Zoë had some extra space so he didn't have to move back in with his mother – which, would have been the only potential fate worse than becoming a beverage slave at The Dot. Zoë wasn't asking him to contribute anything other than his share of the utilities and necessities so, really, minimum wage was all he needed to sustain himself for now. But, of course, this move wasn't going to be permanent.

Tristan was destined for the lavish life of New York - the arts, the culture, the hustle and bustle of the "City that Never Sleeps". Being back in Canada was just…blasé. To put it nicely. The most exhilarating thing he'd done since he arrived was try to re-assemble the ties to his apron before his manager could accuse him of slacking off. Which, he failed at. Surprise, surprise. He had a whole plan. He would stick around here for a while. Work on his finances and really reinvent his new image. Then arrive back to the states in another three years for a groundbreaking comeback. It was flawless.

But in the meantime, he had to suffer through reheating yesterday's fries and serving extra-large black coffees with a plastic smile. He was oddly comforted by the knowledge that if someone out there needed an XL black coffee to get through their day, then they had to be _at least_ as miserable as he was. If not more miserable, even.

He made the order like second nature and carefully made his way outside, scanning the table number once more on the order slip as he walked. He could hardly wait to see this tragic being waiting for him at table 6. As sadistic as it may have been, someone else's scowl could easily become the highlight of his day at that point. He wondered just what sort of disaster he'd find when he arrived. Would this be a tear-struck college freshman who just got dumped by their high school sweetheart? Or perhaps, a 50-something businessman who just lost his job of 25 years?

And then, as if he'd just been unknowingly cast in a horribly cliché teenage sitcom, everything happened at once.

His curious eyes wandered away from the receipt, where they locked oh-so-slowly, yet practically instantly, onto another pair across the way. They sparkled like emerald, brimming with familiarity and nostalgia strong enough to make Tristan's pulse skip a beat. The face that held them showed exhaustion and slight age, yet somehow still remained just as he'd always known them to be:

Ravishing…

...Devilish…

...Enchanting…

 _..."Miles?"_


	3. Two Cups into my Coffee Break

**A/N:**

 **CW: Brief mentions of food/beverages, minor burns, the DNC bus crash, blood, cigarettes, and Miles' dick.**

* * *

 **Chapter Two: Two Cups into my Coffee Break**

" _...Miles?_ Miles Hollingsworth?"

The name stumbled out of Tristan's mouth twofold, feeling strangely foreign as it left his lips. His doubtful eyes blinked purposefully from behind his glasses, convinced his less-than-perfect eyesight was only playing tricks on him again. Just the day before while pumping gas at Esso, he had been certain Rebel Wilson was inside the shop attempting to barter with the cashier for a pack of Canadian Classics. That is, until he hurried inside to come face-to-face with someone no more than a broad blonde with smokers breath and a fistfull of pocket change. But this time, no matter how many times his eyelids squinted and reopened, it was still Miles he saw leaning back proudly in his chair, grinning up at him with a tight-lipped smile.

"In the flesh."

Miles responded, the sound of his voice just as it had always been before - deep and throaty with an unintentional, yet permanent touch of cockiness. He then offered a more genuine grin as he leaned in slightly to the minimal space between them. One that displayed his overly-whitened teeth and caught the light chuckle in his breath as he spoke again.

"Wow. It's been a while... _Tris_."

"Uh. Yeah. It... certainly has." Tristan agreed, offering a slightly nervous chuckle of his own, staring back at Miles as if trying to soak every last fragment in.

He had remained so recognizeable, and yet, so different all the same. Somehow both more and less put together than the last Tristan had seen of him years ago. He was only slightly taller and slightly fuller, and his chestnut hair was kept only slightly longer than he'd had it before. Although his fresh-pressed business attire still screamed with that signature Hollingsworth hateur, the dark scruff along his jawline and the bright shade of red outlining his dim green irises gave his burnout away. Unlike Tristan, who could still hardly make it through a single purchase of Dom Perignon without being carded, Miles had certainly aged since high school. He didn't look _old_ , by any means, but rather ... mature. Like he was a precursor to being one of those guys on that "Find a Sugar Daddy" website that Tristan had _definitely_ not joined the night before.

Of course, Tristan had known upon returning to Toronto that he was bound to run into some familiar faces. Ms. Grell, his old high school guidance counselor, still turned up to The Dot every weekday for her Americano, and he had already been warned to avoid the old music shop on Bloor Street at the risk of running into his ex... _something_ , Vijay. But, not once had he even considered the possibility of running into Miles, of all people. In all honesty, he had come to the realization many years ago that anny attempts to keep tabs on his highschool sweetheart were a lost cause. When Miles first left Toronto for London, everything was exactly how Tristan had hoped it would be. They would text or FaceTime nearly every day - even if just for a brief moment when Miles managed to find service - and Tristan couldn't scroll through any of his socials without being bombarded by pictures of fresh baguettes in Paris or Winston's awful attempt at "holding up" the Leaning Tower in Italy. And then... their lives began.

Seperately, of course, for the first time in years. Then, slowly but surely, the days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months... until eventually, the months turned into nothing more than the obligatory "Thanks for all the birthday wishes!" once a year on Miles' FaceRange to prove he was still alive. Soon enough, no matter who Tristan asked, the word on the street about Miles was always the same. That, as far as they knew, he was still living in London, trying his hand at journalism and maybe working on a book or two in pursuit of his unforeseen ambition to become a writer. And after so long of hearing the same old, vague thing, Tristan tired of asking. By then, he was so busy with himself and his own life in New York that it had become almost easy to just accept Miles Hollingsworth III as a fond, yet distant memory.

But now he was there. Right in front of him again. And Tristan hadn't a clue how he was supposed to feel. Wonder filled his head like The Dot's old espresso machine to their shitty foam cups - far too rapidly, and with the constant threat to never stop. He wondered what the crap Miles was doing there anyways. He wondered if there could be gossip about his return, and if Miles could have become _that_ dick journalist to plot some sort of "chance" reunion for the sake of the latest scoop. For a brief moment, he even wondered if Miles had returned to remind Tristan of his dickish features in a much more literal sense. But Tristan knew the odds that Miles was just back in town for a few days - probably to visit with his family or bail Winston out of jail - were not negative. He also knew far too well the feeling of settling for the old, run-down coffee shop on one of those dreary mornings where the extra two miles to the nearest Starbucks felt like twenty. As far as his last query went, he knew better, of course. Still, the potential of the offer was flattering, and, truth be told, it had been a while since he'd gotten dick quite as good as...

He dropped the matter. Reminding himself with conviction that Miles had already added the "sleeping with a celebrity" notch to his belt of sexual endeavors many years ago after he slept with Zoë. And even after all this pondering Tristan was left with zero actual answers and only one remaining wonder. One that had been buried in the back of his mind under years of forced repression...

 _"When I come back for Christmas._ _Just you and me,_ _one-on-one..."_

He knew he should say _something_ more to cease the uncomfortable silence setting in. Something - anything - to prevent making this weirder than it had to be. This was Miles, for fucks sake. This was the same boy who'd once worn Tristan's piss down his leg leaving the rehab center, and who'd willingly devoted several thirty-minute intervals to helping him change the bloody gauze in his mouth post-wisdom teeth removal. He should have been cracking a joke about how nobody's called him 'Tris' in years...or asking him how he's been all this time... or, at the very least, actually doing his job and offering up a cup of cream and extra napkins.

Tristan had remained so positively mind-fucked he hadn't even realized he had forgotten to hand over Miles' coffee. Nor had he even bothered to notice that the other boy wasn't alone. That is, until there were two nearly microscopic hands tugging on his arm and a mug of hot coffee subsequently flying through his field of . Itspewed all over the tabletop, dribbled some onto the floor, and managed to splatter the chest of Miles' formerly white button-down with a toasty shade of brown as both boys gasped in pure shock.

" _Ohhh my god!_ " Tristan slipped into a panic as Miles fumbled with the buttons on his steaming shirt , bitter curses slipping off his tongue every time his fingers slipped from frenzy.

Oh _God_ , it burned.

Yes, Tristan could literally feel the indignity burning at the surface of his cheeks as if he was the one who took hot coffee to his skin. Perhaps this was the type of scenario he would have been trained to handle if he had actually paid attention to that "Kitchen Safety" video during orientation, instead of Googling reviews for that bizarre French film he'd auditioned for last Spring. If word got to Gavin that Tristan had defaced a customer, he'd be lucky to spend the rest of the month stuck scraping old mustard off of plates in the back. If word got to literally anyone that Tristan had defaced a customer, who also happened to be his _actual ex boyfriend_?!

That was it.

THAT was how he was going to die.

Seeing as how Tristan would have thoroughly enjoyed to keep the phrase "Death by Humiliation" out of his in-memoriam, he had to think fast - and apparently, "thinking fast" got him the ratty dish rag from his apron pocket, and a glass of tap water that had been abandoned on the neighboring table for God knows how long. What followed had to be quite the scene from the outside - a topless tycoon and a bothered barista, frantically trying to settle a fight between 900 ml. of hot coffee and a first degree burn with a likely contaminated cloth and _maybe_ 100 oz. of leftover water which seemed to be getting everywhere but the reddening skin on Miles' chest. The whole thing was completely ridiculous, such an absurd ' this would literally only happen to me and/or in some cheesy sitcom' moment that amidst all the clamour, as curious blue eyes caught that of burnt-out green, all they could do was laugh.

Miles was the one who started it, sputtering once through tight lips before the roaring laughter burst through. And the moment he broke, Tristan did too, sitting back on his heels and all but throwing his head back as they cracked up in perfect unison. It really wasn't that funny in the slightest. Yet, together they laughed and howled and snorted as if this was the first sliver of joy they'd seen in a decade. They continued even after Tristan's ribs had grown sore, and his face as pink as grocery store roses, eventually settling to a controlled chuckle just as he thought his lungs would burst with one more breath. And when they stared back at each other again through dampened lids, they were kids again - recovering from getting all worked up over that horrendous Pennywise dance scene in the "IT" remake or one of Frankie's horrendous charades fails or remembering the time Winston accidentally read "orgasm" instead of "organism" in front of the entire grade 11 science class or god knows what else. There was no more weirdness lingering in the air or uncomfortable silence to stand through. _This_ was the Tristan and Miles feeling they both remembered - and until that moment, Tristan hadn't realized how much he'd needed to remember it.

"I'll bring you another coffee." Tristan offered between muted giggles. "... And some paper towels... and maybe an ice pack? While I'm at it, can I get you anything else? All on the house."

"Not unless you've got a spare suit back there."

The brunette answered, still holding onto one last chuckle as he surveyed the damage done to his poor ensemble. Between the coffee stains, the water damage, his discolored face, and the slight blistering of his pecs, he looked an absolute mess. He sighed as he raised his fingertips to run swiftly through his hair.

"So much for my meeting. Don't suppose I could convince you to call out for me?"

"Sorry, we took Disgracing Phone Calls off the menu last month." Tristan joked with a fictitious grimace as he stood, gathering himself up the best he could. "But, we do have ah- _mazing_ double chocolate chip cookies. Perfect for softening the blow when you return. Nobody will even remember you rescheduled in the first place."

Tristan flashed his best customer-service smile and was already heading back inside. Already reaching for the door handle. Already thinking up a foolproof excuse for the time wasted outside when Miles called out to him with one more statement that froze him in his tracks.

"Well, if they're that good, you'll have to have one with me."

Tristan knew he should have seen that coming. He'd watched enough shitty 90's rom-coms _not_ to see that coming. Yet, he was caught off guard. And he was ashamed. And every voice of reason in his head was telling him to take a breath and to actually think about what he was about to agree to before he just blurted out something he was bound to-

"I'll take an early lunch."

Tristan decided, letting the door shut swiftly behind him and leaving what remained of his voices of reason outside, with what could potentially be the worst... or the best mistake of his young adult life.


End file.
